


Three Pawns Gambit

by sharkduck



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Drunk Sex, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Forbidden Love, M/M, Me: writes a fanfic out of spite because I can't find any of my OTP, Multi, Non-Explicit Sex, Will tag more characters as they pop up
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-13
Updated: 2016-12-13
Packaged: 2018-09-08 07:14:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8835271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sharkduck/pseuds/sharkduck
Summary: "Novigard is a country on the cusp of destructive forces.... perhaps it is for this reason that our story begins." When the young king of a powerful kingdom is nearly assassinated during peace talks, he must flee deep into enemy territory to seek help from a hostile leader whose ambitions are less straightforward than they seem. Even with all his clever stratagems, the king still falls for his barbarous rival.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This AU is near and dear to my heart and absolutely no one will be able to stop me if I write a fic for it LMAO. Be prepared for a ton of chess analogies.

The kingdom of Novigard is a country on the cusp of destructive forces, bordering the Great Steppes of the east and the Cold Sea of the south; cut off from the fertile west by a rugged mountain range; battered by harsh winters and border raids from the Tomarian nomads; occasionally ravaged by the creatures of the Elder Woods to the north. And yet her people persevere.

The Novigardians, despite -- or, perhaps, because of -- the chaos of their natural world have survived and thrived; their hard winters have made them tall and broad, the snow has seeped into their complexions, the mountains birth miners with soot-covered faces who draw up ores used to craft weapons worlds over, the sea gives them hardy sailors with calloused hands who sing their lonesome shanties, the steppes in between provide them with wiry farm boys with twinkling eyes who dream of being soldiers. The Novigardians are master traders, craftsmen, smiths. They are warriors, with siege weapons revered in military circles in the west and fortresses that a thousand men could not penetrate. But, even for all their exceptional talents, the Novigardians are still mortal, and the discord of their habitat has instilled in her populace a great fear of losing and an even greater sense of pride.

Perhaps it is for this reason that our story begins...


	2. Theoretical Novelty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ivan meets a cute boy.

Four years. Four incredibly long, bloody years Ivan had sat and sent men off to die, pushing forward only to be driven back again, making little headway into Tomarian lands.

Or what were _claimed_ to be Tomarian lands.

In truth, the rolling hills and fertile soil was prime farmland that belonged to no one, a buffer zone to provide cushioning between the border villages of Novigard and the edge of the Great Steppes, and Novigard wanted it for her own. But when settlers began putting down roots, the Tomarian High King had claimed it for the clans and called for the dons to "defend their home against the milkskin whoresons." Whatever that meant. The whole thing left Ivan scratching his head more than once.

Tomaria had no need for the land, so why not let Novigard have it? The clans had plenty of ample plains for their horses, as the Great Steppes stretched to the east as far as the eye could see; to the north they had the Elder Woods, where they had plenty of game and wild foods. The rivers and streams provided fish and water roots, and the Cold Sea in the south gave them oysters and crabs to eat and pearls to trade for what they didn't have or couldn't sack from villages nearby. They did mighty fine with what they had, without the acreage that surely wouldn't do much besides bring them closer to more populous areas; something the clans tried staunchly to avoid, since people in large groups were more trouble than they were worth, and large towns were much harder to raid than small Podunk villages. Novigard and the clans were matched equally in strength, and while the Tomarians might have had the numbers and experience, the Novigardians had the equipment and fortifications; and, when winter set in, they'd have the advantage of knowledge and sheer patience, used to the terrain and weather while the Tomarians usually moved further into the arid Steppes to wait out the chill, where it was warmer and their mares could foal in peace without the need for blankets or protection against the elements. It seemed not only foolish, but downright _petty_ to declare war; especially when it lead to such bloody battlefields. A steep price to pay, for such a small reward.

It kept him up at night often, no matter how much he paced his chambers and swore over dusty maps; but the war was over, at least temporarily. A few of the more involved dons, disturbed at the direction the conflict was headed, had decided to call an emergency Clansmeet to very carefully decide their next actions. While Ivan didn't know the details, he was sure that a good portion of them had decided that the substantial loss of life surely wasn't worth a few miles of farmland that they weren't going to use; there would be an ambassador, one of the Tomarians' own dons, the letter said, arriving within the week.

Ivan sighed and rubbed his eyes; even with them closed, all he could see were rivers and forests made of ink and old, yellowed vellum. The emissary would be here any day now. He'd need to be prepared.

Sweeping into his chambers, waving a hand to dismiss the ever-constant presence of his guards, he slipped out of his comfortable silks and grunted at what he saw in the mirror. A round, boyish face incapable of growing more than a patchy stubble no matter how hard he tried; flabby, pale skin, occasionally broken up by stretchmarks here or a small scar there. Pinching a roll of fat between his two fingers, he allowed his nostrils to flare and was thankful -- not for the first time or the last -- that Novigardian fashion favored austerity and warmth, rather than the flashy, hip-hugging doublets and chausses of the west.

Having changed into a marginally less comfortable wool tunic, _svyta_ , and cloak of ermine and velvet, his appearance properly regal and with none of the disheveled insanity he'd been dealing with for the past four to six weeks (he hardly remembered how long it had been since he'd had a proper bath, let alone when he didn't have a cup of strong wine or spirits in either hand) Ivan entered his throne room to hold court, his courtiers falling silent and giving the customary deep, prostrating bow as he stepped onto the raised dais, waiting impatiently for Ivan to placate the peasants so they could all go home to their own affairs. Even sitting rigid in his chair, the perfect image of an abstemious king, Ivan was weak for court gossip, and kept one ear open to ease the boredom of endless hours of posturing and listening to petitions.

_"Have you heard about Boyar Aleksandr and his--"_

_"--Lady Alina has started her twelfth laying in can you believe--"_

_"His Majesty is having a visitor, have you heard--"_

_"--barbarian from the Steppes--"_

_"--lad should get ready for a storm."_

And ready he was, when a group of men swept into his throne room, clad in furs and dust from the long ride and covered from neck to wrist in black, swirling tattoos, the meaning of which were lost to him. They were lead by a handsome young man, older than Ivan or around that age, with fiery eyes and a swagger that belied his cat-like grace. He had the usual face of a Clansman: a long, chiseled jaw with a full lower lip set into a coy grin, shaggy brown hair cropped at the base of his neck and close to his ear and a slender frame corded with muscle and sinew. His eyes, though, were bright and impossibly green, flickering back and forth from Ivan to his sentinels and constantly scanning the room, even as he walked. The hall, having been filled with quiet murmurs, fell disturbingly silent as the group made their way to the dais. Ivan's guards tightened their grips on their pikes and swords. His footman, previously standing slack-jawed, shook himself out of his trance, and Ivan had to silently commend the man for recovering so quickly as he managed to read off the name of their guest for the courtiers to hear:

"Novigard welcomes the Tomarian ambassador and his retinue, Don Antonio, son of Don Fernando, head of the clan of Aragón."


End file.
